Chương 9
“That is reasonable.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m calling Victor.”
“So am I.”
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because one instruction is cleaner than two.”
I almost argued, then stopped.
“Fine.”
“Progress.”
“Don’t enjoy it.”
He hung up.
At 6:41, Dad called again.
I watched his name flash across the screen until voicemail took it.
Then he called again.
On the third attempt, I answered.
“What happened?”
His voice came fast.
“Celeste came back.”
“I thought she left.”
“She did.”
“Then?”
“She returned.”
“For what?”
“She says she forgot medication.”
“Do you believe her?”
“No.”
The answer surprised me.
Dad continued.
“She went into my office.”
“At home?”
“Yes.”
“What was she looking for?”
“She says insurance cards.”
“And what do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
He sounded angry at the phrase now too.
“Did she take anything?”
“I stopped her.”
“How?”
“I stood in the doorway.”
Despite everything, the image almost made me smile.
Dad was six foot two and had avoided direct conflict with Celeste for years.
Apparently a doorway had finally given him structure.
“What did she do?”
“She told me to move.”
“And?”
“I didn’t.”
“What happened then?”
“She slapped me.”
I went quiet.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hit her?”
“No.”
“Did you restrain her?”
“No.”
“She leave?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
I closed my eyes.
“Dad.”
“I watched her drive away.”
“Did she take the laptop?”
“No.”
“Anything from the office?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Check.”
“I already did.”
“What’s missing?”
His silence changed.
“What?”
“A key.”
“What key?”
“To the hotel’s executive records cage.”
I stood.
“Basement?”
“Yes.”
My skin prickled.
“Dad, when did you last see it?”
“Last week.”
“Who knew where you kept it?”
“Celeste.”
“Grant?”
“Probably.”
“Who else?”
“Housekeeper, maybe.”
“Victor?”
“No.”
I looked at the anonymous message again.
Basement records room.
“Call hotel security.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“No one has entered the executive records cage.”
“Are they physically checking?”
“Victor sent two people down.”
I almost told him about the anonymous messages.
Almost.
Then I remembered the reactivated badge.
His administrator account.
The false change order.
“You sound strange,” Dad said.
“I’m tired.”
“No.”
“What?”
“You sound like you know something.”
I did not answer.
“Mara.”
“We’ll talk at Elliot’s office.”
“About what?”
“Everything.”
He went quiet.
Then, “You don’t trust me.”
The accusation was so obvious it did not deserve an answer.
Dad breathed out slowly.
“I suppose I earned that.”
Before I could respond, someone shouted in the background near him.
Dad turned away from the phone.
“What?”
A woman’s voice said something too muffled to understand.
Dad came back.
“I have to go.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“That sounded like something.”
“House alarm.”
“Why?”
“Back door.”
My pulse increased.
“Is Celeste back again?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dad, call the police if someone is trying to enter.”
“It may be the wind.”
“You have a security system.”
“I know.”
“Then let it be a security system.”
“I’m checking the camera.”
“Do not go outside.”
He gave a tired laugh.
“You sound exactly like your mother.”
“Dad.”
“All right.”
The line went quiet while he checked.
Then his breathing changed.
“What?”
“There’s a car at the gate.”
“Celeste?”
“No.”
“Grant?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“I can’t see the driver.”
“Call security.”
“I am.”
“Do not go outside.”
“I heard you.”
He hung up.
I stood in my kitchen holding the phone hard enough that my hand hurt.
Elliot called thirty seconds later.
“Victor secured the basement room.”
“Good.”
“No one gets in without two-person authorization.”
“Dad says Celeste took the key.”
“Then it doesn’t matter.”
“It might matter if there’s another entrance.”
“I asked Victor.”
“And?”
“Only one authorized door.”
“Authorized.”
“Stop.”
“I’m learning from you.”
“Badly.”
I told him about the car at Dad’s gate.
Elliot went quiet.
“Do you want to go there?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
“If Richard has private security and cameras, he is safer there than with you driving across town alone.”
“That feels insulting.”
“It is logistics.”
I looked at the clock.
6:58.
The shredding truck would arrive in two minutes.
“Has Victor said anything about the destruction pickup?”
“Not yet.”
“What if someone tries to load something?”
“They won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the vendor was instructed to remain outside until counsel authorizes entry.”
“Good.”
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Another photograph.
This one showed the basement records room.
The image was older, judging by the fluorescent lighting and the date stamp in the corner.
Three days ago.
Rows of banker boxes lined metal shelves.
A red circle had been drawn around six boxes on the bottom shelf.
The message beneath it read:
Those are the originals.
My heart kicked.
I forwarded it to Elliot.
He swore softly.
“Can Victor verify whether those boxes are still there?”
“I’m calling him.”
This time Elliot did not stop me.
Victor answered immediately.
“I was about to call.”
“Go first.”
“The destruction truck is here.”
“And?”
“Driver says the pickup order was amended yesterday.”
“By whom?”
“Grant.”
“To add what?”
“Six boxes from executive records.”
I stared at the photo.
“Are they marked?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Project finance, 2023 through 2025.”
My mouth went dry.
“Victor, do not let anyone touch them.”
“They’re still in the cage.”
“Confirm physically.”
“I’m standing in front of them.”
Relief came too fast and too weak.
“Take a photo.”
“I already did.”
“Send it to Elliot.”
“Doing it.”
I heard voices behind him.
Someone asked about the pickup manifest.
Victor answered away from the phone, then returned.
“There’s another problem.”
“Of course there is.”
“The manifest says there should be nine boxes.”
I looked at the anonymous photo.
Six circled.
“Only six are there?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to the other three?”
Neither of us needed to say it.
The loading dock photo already had.
“Can you identify what those three contained?”
“I’m checking the manifest.”
Paper rustled.
Then Victor stopped.
“Mara.”
“What?”
“The three missing boxes are labeled legacy audit records.”
My stomach tightened.
“What years?”
May you like
“2021 through 2023.”
Daniel Kerr resigned in 2023.
